Seeking Sunlight
by scorchedtrees
Summary: AU: He is a storyteller, a musician, always weaving tales of others' exploits—and now it is his turn. Rivetra, based on the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice from Greek mythology. Told in three parts.
1. I

_A/N: For Pauline/ohwhatsherface (sun-summoning on tumblr); I hope I didn't butcher your idea too much? XD__  
_

_This is based on the story of Orpheus and Eurydice from Greek mythology but as you will see I took many liberties with… everything. So it only resembles the story in the most basic way of plot and that's it. This is set in some fantasy land in my head as opposed to Greece and… yeah, hopefully it makes sense._

_This should be told in three parts. I apologize if this part is boring or super lame; the next two parts should be more interesting. (I hope.) Feel free to yell at me if the progression is terrible (it feels terrible aldkadsfjl)._

* * *

In the beginning, there is only rain.

It is one of the stories he tells the most, fingers plucking away quietly at the strings, gossamer notes hanging in the air to weave a picture everyone is familiar with: the empty skies, the cold dead seas, the barren plains of the earth and the monsters lurking in the shadows, only emerging from the underworld to prowl about when the fires of Hell become too much to bear. A world devoid of brightness, of color, of vitality; a world without life.

And then the rains come: here the music rises in a steady crescendo and the dark chords begin to modulate, not quite happy but not quite solemn anymore as he plays out the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain, growing from a light drizzle to a torrential flood that sweeps the lands clean, sends the monsters deep into the earth back where they belong, clears out the air and brings something fresh into the universe for once. By the time the rains stop, the world is clear and sparkling, a blank slate ready for the three goddesses to come and create life.

It is one of the most well-known stories of the land, one Levi has told hundreds of times, and though he has been complimented by kings and peasants alike for the way his music portrays the tale, he personally hates rain as it makes everything sticky and disgusting and he does not much like the piece itself.

The first time he sees her is a day as similar to the first day of the world as can be: cold and wet, the grounds underfoot a mess, sticks and stones mired in mud, rivulets of water running into cracks in the cobblestones; the world drenched in Sina's tears as she laments the passing of winter, the coming of the hot season. The plants of the queen's gardens usually thrive in such damp weather but the torrent is too much for them to handle, their leaves drooping, stems beaten down, roots choked and overflowing. The sky is an angry palette of gray and blue paints, slapped onto the canvas in a fit of pique, and the entire world seems to be crying.

The entire world, except for:

A young woman on her knees amidst the greens, auburn hair plastered to her face and neck in clumps, pale blue dress completely soaked through. A thin jacket thrown over her shoulders, face serene and fingers gentle as she sets the plants upright, pulling them back up from their crooked positions, pushing the sticks they wind around more tightly in place. Rain pounds into the dirt around her, her clothes a patchwork of dark stars amidst lighter ones, but she looks happy as she works, and he thinks he hears the faint hum of a familiar melody in the air.

When she stands to move to the next row of plants, she sees him and her mouth forms a little "O" of surprise. Water is running into her eyes, dripping down the short tangled ends of her hair, but she doesn't seem to notice at all. He regards her calmly, arms crossed beneath his cloak, and wonders briefly if she is sane.

She pushes a thick strand of hair behind one ear and offers him a small, almost sheepish smile. He does not move or say anything in response and her eyes search his face beneath his hood, tracing the lines of his features before suddenly they widen and she blinks rapidly.

"You are… Levi, the musician who performed in the king's court today?"

He nods once, curtly, and her face breaks out in a wide grin.

"I was passing by the hall with a stack of plates—they needed extra help in the kitchens—and I heard your lyre. I have heard of your talent before but never would I have imagined—! I could only stay for two minutes but I have never experienced as many emotions as I did in that short amount of time. You play beautifully, truly. It was inspiring."

They are words he has heard hundreds, perhaps thousands of times before—from royals sitting on their thrones as he kneels before them, instrument held carefully to his side, from homeless people in the streets, fingers still and eyes shining so rarely as they praise his ability to hide the ugliness of the world for a while, from mothers with small children clinging to their skirts to surly young men towering over him to elderly folk who claim to have finally heard beauty before they die.

The words are nothing special, nothing new, yet there is something unique about the way her soft voice curls around them, honest and delighted even as rain pours upon her small frame, soaking her clothing, so instead of only nodding again and continuing his trek through the queen's gardens (he would much rather not take the long way through the great hall outside the throne room and face the masses), Levi finds himself asking, "What are you doing?"

She does not seem taken aback by the abrupt subject change. "I don't know when the rain will stop and if I don't make sure these plants are tethered firmly, they'll get swept away." He must still be looking at her like she is crazy because she adds, "I'm the gardener's daughter."

"You're completely drenched."

"Clothes will dry," she says with a shrug. "If these plants die they will not come back to life."

She makes a valid point, he supposes, but he can feel the heavy strike of each raindrop through his cloak and she looks so frail, a petite young woman smaller than him with her clothing shriveled and wet against her skin, so before he can think about what he's doing he is removing his cloak, pulling the hood down and tugging it off his shoulders to toss it at her. The rain instantly presses into him, settling into his skin and bones with a chill only a warm fireplace can ward off, and he makes a face, thinking of how much scrubbing he'll have to do tonight when he does the washing.

She catches it by reflex, the fabric twisting in her fingers, but she stares at him without moving until he scowls and snaps, "Are you going to put it on or not?"

She draws the cloak around her own shoulders, fumbling with the clasp as she does, even as she says, "But you're leaving now—"

"There is a carriage waiting outside," he says—not true, but she doesn't need to know that. "You can keep it. You don't want to fall ill in this weather."

He turns to leave then, because if he stays any longer he will start to wonder why he is letting himself suffer on behalf of a stranger—he isn't a kind person by any means; if he were ever approached by a deity disguised as a beggar asking for help he would probably end up getting punished for being an unhelpful ass—and he doesn't want to dwell on his reasoning for his actions.

Before he can take two steps she rushes over to him, feet squishing in the mud, and he cringes as it splatters on his boots. Suddenly there is something gripping his fingers, cold and wet, her hands small over his, but her smile is almost bigger than her face as she says, "Thank you, Levi."

It is still raining, a dissonant medley of water sliding off wood and plinking off stones, sinking into the ground, but her voice is a tonic chord amidst the music and he cannot help thinking that were he still telling the story of the beginning of the world, her smile might be the creation of the sun.

.

.

.

Of course, the sun's appearance is only the very first part of the story. Just as Sina next shaped the clouds and Rose filled the seas and Maria fertilized the land, he sees her many times again and he learns a lot more about her than her smile.

He spends his days traveling, often walking on foot from one city to the next, passing towns and small villages and farmsteads on the way. He has a few meager possessions, a sack of coins, and his lyre slung in a bag across his back, and he only stops when his stomach growls in hunger or his feet can no longer move without protesting each step.

They whisper about him wherever he goes—that he is the son of Sina, goddess of truth and light, the skies and the arts, who left him in the woods with only a lyre to accompany him; that he weaves spells with his instrument, enchanting the citizens of every land; that the flowers bloom and the grass grows green after every step he takes, every note he plays.

Levi thinks they are all ridiculous—he doesn't remember his parents, only a cheap wooden thing he took from a stall because the vendor didn't guard his wares as closely as the one who manned the fruit cart, and now he performs because it is all he can do, the only thing that makes him feel alive. He has nowhere to live, no place to stay, and he does not ask for payment for his performances, just accepts coins tossed his way that he uses to buy food and shelter for the night, but they are all kept in one pouch he brings everywhere.

He bought a better quality instrument the moment he could afford one and it's been with him for nearly thirty years. He has two separate sets of clothing—a cloak, a tunic, pants, and boots—and three different knives, one for slicing fruits and the other two not. He knows how to defend himself and has killed twice before, hiding the bodies before the blood on his blades had time to dry, and the incidents slip his mind as easily as his fingers silence unwanted strings in the chords he strums.

He isn't the son of one of the three main goddesses they worship, he isn't a half-divine being who creates magic with his lyre; he is Levi and he just exists, wandering about aimlessly without a purpose in life.

Any deities, were they ever to appear to him, would surely be disappointed: humans are meant to make something of life, something they can talk about when they die and their spirits return to the underworld, and he is doing nothing.

But when he sees her again, the gardener's daughter with the hair like burnt out fire, she does not seem to agree.

"That was amazing," she says of his performance, voice quiet and breathless with wonder. "You played with so much emotion, just like last time and—how many pieces do you know?"

He regards her from his spot on the floor, kneeling by the chair he sits on to play; her hair is a brighter color when dry, autumn leaves and dried orange peels, the different shades of Rose's many fingers. She looks older when not completely wet: he thought she was quite young but now he sees she is a grown woman, if only just, of marrying age.

"Many," he says, pulling his other cloak over his shoulders, shoving his plectrum deep into the pockets.

"Did you ever have a teacher?"

"No."

That's not entirely true; the goddesses taught him, though not in the way most people think. He draws inspiration from Sina's cloudless blue skies, Rose's tall trees and rich earth, Maria's notorious pathways into the underworld. He never acknowledges them outright, but silently he thanks them because while he may be rude and uncaring, he is not a fool and he knows better than to anger the goddesses.

"That piece you played." She crosses her arms and frowns a little, thin creases furrowing her brow. "What happened to them in the end?"

It is the story of what Levi likes to think of as the doomed lovers version six (there are many): the man who upset Rose and was cast out forever to sea, his lover banished to an island and only able to see him once every four years on an extra day Sina created for them out of pity. Most think it a romantic tale; Levi does not.

"There is no end," he says. "We still have one extra day every four years."

"Every story has an end."

"Then theirs hasn't ended yet."

"So you will keep telling their tale for as long as you live? Until you reach your end? Even then will their story keep going?"

What a strange question. He supposes he ought to feel uneasy but it is hard to do so when she has that curious expression on her face, lightening her features, and he shrugs.

"It is possible."

His travels constantly take him past the palace where she and her father live, where he and his lyre are popular guests. He does not see her every time he visits but he finds that after the first day he meets her in the gardens, she is often on his mind, lurking at the back of his thoughts, greatly puzzling him as to why he can find her so easily in the green and brown of the trees, the swirls of blue and white in the sky.

Every time she talks to him she is full of questions, questions about his music and his stories and his inspiration, but she also wants to know about _him_: his life, his hobbies, his dislikes. He has never talked about himself before: hundreds, likely thousands of people have listened to and talked about his music but once the music is over, they move on. To them, there is no man behind the lyre, no one attached to the fingers that strum it. Not that he cares; he really has nothing to define him beyond music. Traveler? Wanderer? Killer? Midget? He snorts at the last one.

But for some reason, she cares; she wants to know and he does not know if it is her inquisitive expression or her gentle voice or her eyes sparkling like newborn stars, but whatever it is he finds himself telling her, giving voice to things he never thinks about.

She wants to know all about the pieces he plays and the foods he likes and the things that make him happy; she wants to know him and his life. He tells her eventually about what he did to survive on the streets, running and swiping and dodging and fighting to stay alive; he tells her about how he first learned to play, clumsy fingers testing the strings, notes in his ears and determination in his eyes and his heart in his throat; he tells her about the storyteller he traveled with as a child, the one-armed blond man with the cold blue eyes, a stark contrast to the warm powerful voice that mesmerized hundreds with his tales.

He is not the only one who talks though; she gives him pieces of herself in return with her words until he feels he has her by his side at all times. He learns early on that her name is Petra, named after the smooth solid rocks in the dirt her father upturns. He learns she has always loved taking care of things, has always helped her father tend to his plants and sewn his clothing for him, has always cooked and cleaned at the castle, swept the floors and dried the dishes and watched the servants' children as they played. He learns that she enjoys simplicity, the simple nature of life and its pleasantries: the breeze in her hair, the sun on her face, good music in her ears, the feeling of rough bark under her fingers as she scales the trees in the forest outside the palace grounds. Most people are selfish, only wanting fame and fortune for themselves, but she is content to help others in the shadows and enjoy quiet things in life without bothering others.

He asks her, once, her opinion of what people say about his semi-divine heritage. She doesn't hesitate before answering.

"I think you are as human as the rest of us, and if you aren't, then you don't know any better."

His expression must be some strange combination of shocked and amazed as he stares at her because she laughs, the sound light and carefree. She grins at him, threading her fingers through his and squeezing his hand quickly. "Don't look so surprised, Levi; you may be an extremely talented musician but you're not that special."

His heart thumps far too loudly in his chest for him to muster a proper response, and he realizes with a sense of foreboding that he may like her more than he thought.

.

.

.

He plays many love songs, tales of brave heroes and beautiful women, of clever girls and sly spirits, of lovers separated by rivers of blood and tears. The three goddesses are fickle, pushing people together and pulling them apart the next, and many a great story can be found in the folds of their skin, the sky and the trees and the earth and the seas.

Bards sing of the overwhelming feeling of love, something that crawls into your being and takes up residence in your heart, like a heavy longing that can never be satisfied no matter what you do. He strums bright chords and plucks delicate notes, a balance of the heady rush of desire and the quiet steady flutter of understanding, and though sometimes he can almost feel Nile's strong affection and Mary's gentle acceptance, he thinks he relates more to Erwin's resignation as that hero turns to fight the Titans, letting someone else have what he wants.

Levi thought he knew what love was, has played it out many times and decided it is not for him, but never would he have imagined experiencing it himself.

It is not at all what he thought, but it must be love because he cannot think of anything else to explain the way his pulse quickens when he sees Petra, the way his breath catches when she holds his hand or says his name, the way he finds every word that leaves her lips fascinating, even if she is commenting on the weather or how well a stableboy did weeding the flower gardens.

Love is meant to be grand, a soaring swooping feeling that makes you feel like you are walking on air, but instead Levi only feels nervous.

He has been performing since he could first play his instrument, capturing the attention of hundreds at once with harmonies of silver and notes of spun gold, the vibration of his strings the only sound in the middle of a large crowd. Even then he is never worried, never timid, yet interactions with Petra whenever he gets to see her sends his stomach churning with nerves and his heart crawling up his throat.

It is stupid, it is irrational, and he thinks it might be love.

Though she is of age, she is unmarried; her father does not wish to see her wed, she explains once. "He doesn't want me to leave him," she says, and if she feels bitter about that she does not show it.

She must not feel the same way, he tells himself, and he makes himself believe it. She treats everyone with equal kindness, and she must consider him a friend the way she does Erd the baker or Auruo the blacksmith.

He convinces himself of this, even on nights when his audiences request love songs and he for once has firsthand experience of the emotions he pours into the pieces—when the firelight flickers in her eyes, illuminating the planes of her face and dancing across the pale line of her throat—when she is utterly absorbed in the music, yet her eyes are intent and focused on him and when he looks back at her he nearly plays a wrong note.

Love is meant to be grand, a formal declaration, an offer and acceptance before anything else, but Levi has never been one for ritual.

He thinks it is all her fault, her fault for being so careless, but he has long since known of her rather boyish nature, the childish side of her that likes to run barefoot through the grass and study insects and climb trees. He finds it rather endearing, not that he would ever admit it, and follows her through the forests behind the palace as she explores the woods, wading through small streams and investigating mossy roots and parting branches to haul herself higher up in the foliage above his head.

She is making her way up one tall tree, tree trunk sturdy and grip firm, when she reaches for the next branch and misses by a hair. There would be no problem but her foot somehow slips at that instant, and then her fingers are scrambling for a hold as she falls through thin air, blotting out the sun in Levi's eyes in one instant.

He reaches his arms out to catch her and she barrels into him, sending them both tumbling into the dirt. There is no crack but he swears his bones readjust in that moment, sharp pricks of pain stabbing through his sides where he landed. Luckily she is on top of him, cushioning her fall, and luckily she is light, saving his body from further harm, but he is unable to move for a few seconds and he lies there, breathing heavily.

"I'm so sorry!" she cries, turning her head to face him. "Are you alright?"

She is close, closer than she has ever been, close enough that he can see the shapes of her eyelashes, the little slivers of other colors in her irises. Her cheeks are flushed, her mouth parted in surprise, and before he can think about what he's doing—maybe the fall knocked some sense out of his brain—he leans forward and kisses her.

The moment he does he regrets it—he has always known he is not a gentleman but he should have asked her permission first anyway and this is the _worst time possible_—but before he can pull away, he feels something wet on his cheeks.

He tilts his head back to look at her—her eyes are watering, tears trailing down her face, but her smile is bigger than he's ever seen it and before he can ask her what's wrong she pulls his face back to hers.

"You're an idiot," she proclaims, and kisses him again.

He strokes her hair, curls his fingers around her waist—and feels a bit of scraped skin from where her shirt rode up as she fell. "_You're_ the idiot," he says, but she is laughing and he cannot bring himself to chastise her further, especially when he can feel the movement of her lips against his.

"Marry me," he says without thinking, and when she simply replies, "Yes," he knows with a strike of clarity what happiness feels like.

Love is meant to be grand, a majestic thing celebrated by both families and all friends involved, a huge occasion with feasts and music and dancing, but they only want a small ceremony.

The priest of the nearby village's church will marry them, wishing them good fortune and longevity and all the blessings of the goddesses. Only her father and a few of her close friends will attend; he has no one to invite. She will help cook the feast to be provided afterwards, and if he plays his lyre there will be no one to dance with her.

It is not an auspicious day, the priest warns them; according to their birthdays and ages, they should wait for the first month of the next hot season. But Petra does not want to wait and Levi does not care, and so they are to be married on this day.

Levi does not have enough coins saved to buy the customary robe men wear when they are wed, but he does have enough to purchase the plain white pants and tunic donned underneath. Petra assures him that she has found her mother's wedding dress and it fits her perfectly.

Petra's father does not completely support the union—"He's a _traveling musician_, Petra," he said at one point when Levi was in earshot—but he can see how happy his daughter is and so he does not complain. He is in the palace as some of the servants and Petra's friends make preparations, and Levi stands outside the small house where she and her father live, waiting for the moment the priest arrives and she steps out the front door and they can finally get the formalities done with, finally be together.

He is still waiting when he first hears the screams.

.

.

.

He has never seen an eclipse before.

There are stories about them, of course, stories he has heard hundreds of times, whispered around fireplaces, told by old men on the streets, passed from one mouth to another around a dinner table; stories he has played himself, using quiet diminished chords to portray the land's deep-seated unease at the disappearance of the sun. Eclipses only happen when something terrible is afoot—when humanity has overstepped its boundaries, when Sina is angry, when the first Titan was born. The sun is a symbol of birth, of life, and its absence is a dark and unsettling omen.

It should not be shining so brightly when she is not breathing.

Even in death she is beautiful—he could create epics from the dips and valleys of her face, the red rivers cutting through, but the sunshine of her smile that usually overlooks the plains is gone, eclipsed by a hazy cloud settling in her eyes. For once he does not care for the dirt as he sinks to his knees beside her body, gently cradling her shoulders and pulling her twisted form to him, pressing his ear to her chest. There is no heartbeat, of course—the moment he saw the blood painting her face, the glassy look in her eyes he knew—but the lack of warmth makes his stomach churn, something clawing at his insides like it is trying to pull his intestines out.

"I—I just saw her an hour ago," Jean, one of the stableboys stammers. "She was… perfectly fine and—"

Levi does not hear him, does not hear the shocked cries behind him, does not hear the murmurs that someone should send for the gardener and tell him his to-be-wed daughter has entered Maria's realm. His heart is thumping loudly in his ears, a rushing noise that blocks out all other sounds except his frantic thoughts.

It is not an auspicious day—he _knows_ that—but he never thought the deities would so conspire against him. They say he is Sina's son—and he's never believed it, but—what did he do to anger her? Is it his lack of gratitude for his talent? Is he breaking an unspoken rule by trying to find a slice of happiness for himself in this meaningless world? Is he meant to live and die alone, always traveling, always restless, always searching and never still? Was finding love a mistake?

_No,_ he thinks, fingers clenching involuntarily in the folds of her dress. _It can't be. _No matter what, Petra will _never_ be a mistake. Her lovely smile like dappled sunlight, eyes shining and skin glowing, face alight as she looks at him—she is the best thing he has ever known in all thirty-something years of his life and he will _not_ lose her.

He is a storyteller, a musician, always weaving tales of others' exploits—and now it is his turn. The tales are told so many times by so many people they must surely have some grain of truth, some breath of life. And if Maria's realm exists, he will find it.

He presses his lips to her still-warm mouth and silently vows to bring her back.


	2. II

_A/N: Sorry this took so long! Third part should come more quickly. (I hope.) Also this is unedited; I'll edit it in like two weeks because it's about 4 AM right now and I'm quite busy recently._

* * *

He sets out the next morning at dawn.

They will realize he is gone shortly, he knows—they will shake their heads and speak of him with disapproval; Petra's father will curse his name. _Once a traveler, always a traveler,_ they will say, _couldn't even stay an extra day to bury the woman he loved_.

Levi does not care—let people think what they want. He cannot bear to watch them lower Petra's body into the ground, and he will show them all when he brings her back.

The forest behind the palace grounds has always been relatively safe, so no one is sure what killed her. A wild boar, some suggest, but the huntsmen sent into the woods yesterday returned hours later, all empty-handed. Whatever it was, it is now gone, having completed the one task that turned Levi's world upside-down.

The sun is barely rising, pale yellow light filtering through the branches overhead when he stops before the tree they found her against, spine curved and form twisted, deep bloody grooves in her back that might have been made by claws or possibly tusks. The grass in the area is trampled, footprints everywhere, but he can still see dark stains amidst the dirt that must be remnants of her blood.

He swallows and looks away; he is not here to grieve. He cannot, will not, _must not_ grieve. If he is to succeed, he must not think she is gone. She is temporarily absent, out of sight, somewhere hard to reach—but he will find her, and he will bring her back.

He spent hours the night before searching, padding silent-footed through the woods, pushing aside branches, rifling through bushes, overturning earth. Now he has them, and he kneels by the spot she was found, setting them down gently.

He places the items in a semicircle around the exact spot Petra's body was discovered; a feather to replenish Sina's wings (_her empty eyes staring up into the sky_), a leaf to readorn Rose's dress (_her upper body crushed against the tree_); a smooth round stone for Maria to pile upon her throne of the dead (_her lower body pressed to the ground_). It is hard to deduce which goddess is most responsible for her death, so he must attempt to appease them all.

Levi stands and looks down at his offering—pitiful, almost, but he does not have the time nor means to do anything else. After a moment, he reaches for his bag and slings it over his back, then turns and walks away.

.

.

.

He starts in Shiganshina.

Once the center of civilization in ancient tales and legends, it is now little more than a home for the poor, a city full of beggars and orphans, rats and sewage. The merchants lock their houses up tightly and hire mercenaries to guard their treasures for them; the craftsmen stay with their guilds and try to prevent others from seeing gold exchange hands. The innkeepers and barmaids are far too used to tavern brawls and scrubbing the wooden floors free of blood is all too common an occurrence every night.

But it is in these run-down places, Levi knows, where the real stories are. These are the places where gossip travels most quickly, words flow most freely. A little alcohol and a brief flash of coins is more than enough to get most tongues to loosen considerably.

He pays for the least expensive room at one such inn, a small cramped space with a mattress hardly worthy of being called a bed and a few boards stacked on top of each other in a poor excuse for a desk. Not trusting the integrity of the other guests or the locks on the door, he takes everything with him before leaving the room.

He orders a bowl of stew in the taproom downstairs and eats it without really tasting it; the flavor is bland, the meat tough, and he tries not to wonder what it is made of. The other patrons of the establishment eye him warily, some with outright hostility, but despite his short stature and obvious unfamiliarity with the area, no one bothers him; perhaps it is the look on his face, the determination burning in his eyes—whatever it is, he is left alone as he finishes his meal and exits through the front door.

Outside it is slightly chilly, the wind brisk though the air reeks of the city: garbage piled high along the streets, meat being butchered and waste being dumped, filth and smoke and unwashed bodies. Levi picks his way through the people, careful to avoid the brush of his clothing against theirs, and finds his way to what is possibly the cleanest structure in the entire shitty place: the marble fountain in the city square.

It was built centuries ago in the times most sung of, the times most old tales speak of: when the goddesses roamed the land and would appear freely to mortals, granting wishes and offering immortality as often as they cursed and dealt punishment to those who did not recognize their greatness. The fountain is something sacred to the denizens of Shiganshina, a testament to the city's better days, and the only people to touch the cool white marble are the ones who keep it clean.

Delicate swirls and bold lines decorate its rim, precisely carved patterns that seem to melt into the water. The flow comes from the statue positioned in the center, a man holding an open book with a map of the world printed on it; the water spills from the map as if the charted oceans are overflowing.

Standing at the edge of the fountain, looking up at the statue, Levi recognizes the visage immediately: this figure does not have many stories dedicated to him, but many of the heroes who do have plenty of tales about them would have long been lost without the guidance of—

"He helped win the war against the Titans," a voice says. "He foretold who would betray humankind."

Levi glances over to see a young boy, small and blond, clutching a book and standing by his side, staring up at the statue with him. The boy's eyes are a bright, serious blue, much wiser than his age suggests, and Levi wonders what a child is doing alone in the city at night.

"He isn't mentioned in stories," the boy continues, speaking so quietly Levi isn't sure if the kid is talking to him. "The brave maiden Mikasa always saves the day, or the fierce cavalryman Jean. The stories never say he figured out who the enemy is and guided the heroes, told them how to act. What is thought to be the hero Eren's house or the Titan scientist Hanji's laboratory are well-known places, attractions for tourists. No one remembers or celebrates the prophet. But Shiganshina built a statue for him. Shiganshina remembers."

The boy's voice is calm, almost eerie, and Levi stays silent, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. _He's just a child_, he reminds himself, but something about the boy's still countenance and the almost dreamy tone of his voice makes Levi feel more uneasy than he did when highwaymen tried to rob him on the journey here two nights ago.

Then the boy looks up at Levi, all traces of adultness disappearing from his face as he beams, eyes crinkling into half-moons and cheeks stretching into a wide smile. "Do you like stories, sir?"

"No," Levi says, retreating as far as he can into the hood of his cloak.

The boy does not seem deterred. "Have you heard the story of the key Eren's father gave him? And then"—he gestures at the statue—"_he_ helped Eren figure out how to use the key. How to use it to help defeat the Titans."

"Yes," Levi says when the boy blinks at him, clearly waiting for a response. "He did."

The child nods like a tutor whose student gave him the right answer. "Good night, sir," he says, and ambles away, opening his book as he goes. It must be something he does often because he expertly avoids puddles of filth without looking up.

Levi stares after him for a moment and then shakes his head before turning back to the fountain. He gives the statue of Armin the prophet one last glance before he leaves, wrapping his cloak around himself more tightly as he heads back to the dreary warmth of the inn.

.

.

.

He stays for two weeks, spending his nights at different taverns, never speaking, never moving, always silent, always still. Those who frequent Shiganshina's bars quickly learn to recognize him and not bother him; two nights after he first arrived someone tried to sneak up on him, snatch his coin purse—Levi broke the man's fingers without looking up from his drink.

He hears all the usual gossip: news of the king's next meeting with the high constable, which business the thieves' guild is targeting next, who last tumbled the blacksmith's daughter. It is the same in every city he visits; only the names change.

He learns to tune out the trivial affairs of the people and his ears only pick up things that matter to him: a bard's performance in Trost, a funeral for the carpenter's wife, a gala held in Stohess in honor of Princess Historia's engagement, where there will inevitably be food, drink, music, and dance.

"Named after Queen Historia of old, en't she?" a grizzled sailor says, raising his pint of ale. "Let's toast the princess's marriage; may she live to a ripe old age and provide her husband many babes."

"Hear, hear!" his companions call, clanking their cups, and Levi feels his eye twitch in distaste.

"It's arranged, of course," a dockworker points out. "She'll be meeting the prince on 'er wedding day."

"Hope he's good to her," someone else says. "She ain't got no lady knight to protect her like her namesake."

"You sure about that? Heard her lady-in-waiting's quite feisty."

But news of the gala is something that spreads like wildfire across the kingdom; only the most elite will attend, the high-ranking nobles and the wealthiest landowners, the most talented musicians and poets, and Levi is sure a certain person he wants—needs—to see again will be there.

He sets out for Stohess, stopping in Trost along the way. Shiganshina did not provide him with the answers he is searching for—every inch of the city is crowded with inhabitants, bustling and expanding, constantly in motion, not a soul caught in that quiet space between life and death, existence and nonexistence, this world and the next that he seeks.

Trost is more orderly, packed into districts of small brick houses, schools and churches, small businesses and shipping centers and shops with homes above them. Levi passes a graveyard lined with tombstones in neat rows and pauses to look in for a moment, but after a second he forces himself on. He's never put much stock in the myth that spirits are visible when they leave their bodies for the underworld the night they are buried, and lurking at the back of the procession for the funeral in Shiganshina even hours after the rest of the people had gone only proved him right. If there is one thing that can be said for all the goddesses, it is that they are very proud, and Maria surely would not step foot in a gathering place for the dead on earth when she already has so many in her own realm.

The inn he chooses to stay in this time is privately owned, a small, clean residence with two floors, all gleaming windows and polished wood. The woman who runs it is kind, smaller than Levi with gray hair in a bun and nothing but friendliness in her tone as she welcomes him in and offers him a free meal with the purchase of one night's stay. He eats in silence, the broth hot and delicious, and realizes the last time he enjoyed a meal was with—

He sets the bowl down, no longer hungry, and only picks it up again at the matron's inquisitive expression. He finishes and leaves his things there, only bringing his coin pouch with him, thanking her before exiting the establishment.

The weather is slightly warmer in Trost, and many little stalls and open markets adorn the sides of the streets. There are bookshops and bakeries on nearly every corner, and the smell of fresh bread and chandlers' wax mixes with the scent of horse droppings as delivery boys dash back and forth and coachmen drive carriages through the streets, the sound of hooves clicking and peddlers advertising bargains filling the air.

It is not like Shiganshina, where almost everything seemed to be covered in a layer of grime, and there is something quaint, almost welcoming about the atmosphere. Petra would love it here, he thinks; having lived her whole life in a small cottage on the edge of the palace grounds, she would be amazed and delighted by all the new sights and scents, wanting to look at the trinkets one stall has on display or try the sweetmeats another is providing free samples of.

The sudden, deep ache in his chest is as unfamiliar to him as the first stirrings of affection were and he clamps down on it, shoving it as hard as he can back to wherever it came from. Such feelings can only hinder his objective and he will not condone them, not when he needs his full concentration on his current purpose.

One deserted back street catches his eye—it is lined with shops and stalls, but most are closed and there is a strange, heavy heat at the mouth of the alleyway. He thinks of Titans and their unusually high body temperatures, of the flames of the underworld, the fires of Hell, and turns in that direction.

He picks his way through the abandoned street, careful not to step on bits of broken glass and puddles of dirty water littering the crooked cobblestones. One boarded-up store has a sign advertising potions to heal ulcers; another claims to be closed but open-flame candles flicker in the shop window. He stops and looks back at one empty stall because he could swear he just saw something behind it that looked an awful lot like a human skull—

"That's where people buy urns or jars before they come to me," a voice says behind Levi. "Then I take the bodies."

He goes still, hand automatically reaching for the dagger at his waist, and the person laughs.

"I work at the crematory up ahead but I'm harmless, I promise you. Turn around, I don't bite."

He looks over his shoulder to find a figure emerging from the shadows, someone covered from head to toe in black material he's never seen before. Only the person's eyes are visible, big brown orbs behind black-framed glasses.

"Is there anything else around here besides the crematory?" Levi asks, keeping his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

"Not really; I get the most business. Others come and go, but there always bodies to be burned." He must be eyeing the strange outfit oddly because the person adds, "Protects me from the furnace."

"People in Trost don't want their dead buried?"

"Funerals are expensive. A quick job, a nice urn… and you get to keep your loved ones with you forever."

Levi thinks of Petra, imagines her body going up in flames, reduced to a jar on her father's mantelpiece, and shudders.

"Besides," the person adds, "it fits with the old stories, don't you think? Titans were created out of humanity's greed, but if you think about it they're really still human. And once Titans are killed, they turn to ashes—only fitting that humans are the same way in death, hm? And Titans ran on really high temperatures, much hotter than anything the human body can stand—like giant walking furnaces, really. Did you know that?"

"Yes."

"So you listen to the old stories!" The cremator's face is hidden but Levi is sure the person behind all the black material is grinning. "So once the last Titan was defeated, it made sending them back to the underworld quite easy. No need to shove huge bodies into a pit. Just toss the ashes into the hole and lock them up."

"This hole that leads to the underworld—where is it?"

"Are you searching for traces of the old stories?" When Levi does not respond, the cremator answers anyway. "Well, nobody knows, do they? I expect it's nowhere too far away as people found their way to the underworld all the time back then. But hidden well, I'm sure. Locked up, perhaps, to prevent others from getting in—which would explain why no one's been creating new stories of their own since the olden days."

Another dead end, then. He turns wordlessly and makes his way back to the mouth of the alleyway, giving the cremator a wide berth as he passes, just in case. He nods once in acknowledgment and the person waves back cheerily.

No luck, but Levi isn't too disappointed. Without meaning to, he's pinned his hopes on the one face he is positive will be at the gala in Stohess, where Levi will be waiting with questions.

.

.

.

He only stays long enough in Trost to watch the traveling bard perform before leaving, tipping the innkeeper generously for her troubles. As he expected, he gleaned no new information from the performance, though he did think of a new piece to play from the stories he heard that night.

The journey to Stohess is not too long, but now that he has a smaller goal, now that he is waiting for something instead of confronting a large problem he has no idea how to begin dealing with, the thoughts start to settle in, all the doubts and hopes and emotions and dreams he's been ignoring from the moment he saw Petra at the base of the tree, bent and bloody and all too dead.

_You're an idiot to think you can find the underworld after no one's done it in hundreds of years. You're an idiot to think the entrance even exists anymore after so long. You're an idiot to leave her when she needs you most, when her father is mourning and the palace staff is talking and you'll no longer be welcome in the halls. You're an idiot to have fallen in love in the first place, to think you'd be any sort of good influence in her life. You're a damn fool to have thought you could marry her, be with her and provide for her and maybe have children someday._

But he did think that; though he never openly acknowledged the foolish thoughts, he _had_ expected that someday he would have a family with her. That he would always be by her side, always have someone to play for, always be there to catch her when she falls. That he would always know what happiness is.

If this is love, Levi wishes he never learned of its force in the first place because before Petra, such thoughts would never have existed in his mind. Such thoughts would never haunt him with their impossibility now, taunt him with how close yet how far he is to the realization of such a dream.

_No._ Thinking like this has no benefit to what he is doing right now. Thinking like this is useless because he cannot turn back time; all he can do is move forward. He will not let such notions impede his progress, not when he is so close to finding answers.

Because the one-armed storyteller _will_ have answers. He always does.

.

.

.

If Shiganshina is a home for the poor, then Stohess is for the wealthy. The moment Levi steps through the city gates he feels out of place, no longer a silent shadow moving through the streets without notice. His slightly tattered cloak and boots are a far cry from the citizens' clothing, flashy dresses decorated with the most unusual ornaments, silk tunics in the most garish colors, impractical shoes that look utterly painful to walk in.

The roads are paved, men and women dressed in clothes similar to his are on every corner sweeping and picking up garbage, and even the liverymen who escort the nobles they work for look far wealthier than the average citizen of Trost. Levi can feel eyes on his back as he walks, keeping his head down and his hood pulled up as he tries to recall the last time he was in this city.

The gala should be held in the central governmental building, where a council of rich men sit around every day and debate how to leech more money off the rest of the kingdom. Aside from those important duties, they cater to the royal family's whims, providing anything the heirs of the Reiss dynasty might want as long as the king keeps being a good little figurehead.

Other than council rooms, the building comprises three opulent ballrooms and two indoor theaters, where performances are held twice a year on the winter and summer solstices in honor of the goddesses. Rose is most powerful in spring and autumn, Maria and Sina are constant all year round, but it is on those two days all three are equal.

The gala is intended to be an elite event, but Levi supposes there are far too many figures of prominence to be invited that the number of elite still spill out into the streets hours before the event begins. He finds his way to the back of the building, where servants scurry in and out, dumping trash, retrieving packages, carrying water and wood. There are many preparations to be done, keeping everyone busy, and no one notices when Levi slips inside.

He was not invited to the gala but he doubts anyone is keeping tabs on the performers; as long as the entertainment does not falter or stop, the nobles will have no reason to complain. He exits the servants' passage, turns right at the kitchen, ducks past a startled scullery maid, and hurries up the first staircase he sees.

Upstairs the hallway branches into two, one plushly carpeted and leading to ornate double doors carved with images of Sina's first flood, the other plain hard wood. Levi hears the low murmur of voices and the faint whine of instruments tuning and heads in that direction.

Pushing open the door at the end, he finds himself in a wide open room with a high ceiling, nothing in it but chairs, mirrors—and the dozens of people who will be performing that night. Poets and storytellers speak to each other in grand gestures and soft tones, saving their voices for later. Singers and musicians test notes, acrobats and dancers stretch their muscles on the floor, and Levi sees one man practicing sleight of hand in the corner.

No one pays him any attention as he sits down a distance away from the others, taking his lyre out of his bag and unwrapping it carefully. He hasn't played it, not in weeks, not since the moment his world quite literally went to Hell, and as he quietly plucks each string, tuning his instrument, he wonders if his skill has notably deteriorated since then.

He starts out with a few simple scales and arpeggios, then decides to try something the princess and her guests might want to hear—a sweet, lilting melody about the wonder of first love. The princess will be getting married to someone she has never met before; she should be reassured by something like this.

He has only played two bars when the delicate notes begin to paint a picture in his head: Petra, kneeling in her father's garden, soaked with rain but her smile brighter than the sun. He wills the image out of his mind and continues but it is only replaced by another: Petra sitting on her knees by the fire, watching him play, eyes sparkling in the firelight. He shakes his head and the image disappears, but his hands stutter and hit a wrong note at the same time.

Perhaps he will play something else then. He tries for a light, cheery folk song portraying the joy of farmers after a good harvest, something festive to set the mood, but only three bars in and he realizes what is usually a lively tune is becoming something mournful at his fingertips. He stops, starts again, and stops once more when he decides it isn't going to work.

He thinks of the stories the bard told in Trost and the piece that came to mind after watching the performance; he attempts to put the idea to music, find the right chord to begin the melody in his head, but every chord he strums is too melancholy. Even when the notes are in harmony, the perfect combination for something bright and happy, none of them sound right to his ears.

With a scowl he gives up and starts on something else, strumming the first few notes of a darker melody that slowly grows in intensity. It is a story not many like to tell: what happened not long after the world was given life, after the seas were filled with fish, the skies with birds, the lands with people. A story of a black time when even the goddesses could not control their own creations; the story of the birth of the first Titan.

Humans were still young then, compared to everything else only newborns on the face of the earth, but they were greedy and selfish and wanted more for themselves; they wanted power they should not have. Their impurities brought forth the race of Titans, hideous giants in the shape of people with the minds of the monsters that roamed the underworld.

It was a disastrous time for humankind; they retreated underground to hide but nothing could stop the Titans from finding them anyway; the ground was drenched in blood, the seas bathed in red, the sky painted black. It took the combined effort of all three goddesses, all minor deities and spirits, all brave selfless humans willing to sacrifice their lives to help others to stop the giants from overtaking the world.

They are now deep in Hell, barred from entrance to the rest of the underworld, where Maria guards all lost lives closely, her fearsome power fueled by the ages stopping them from breaking through and wreaking havoc once again. But they are there, waiting, ready to escape, and the piece Levi plays is a grim reminder to humanity that they will never be safe.

He finishes on a solemn note, just one note and not a chord hanging in the air. There are still others talking, humming, laughing, singing around him, but he can feel the somber atmosphere of the piece settling on his shoulders like a heavy burden he has to bear.

The moment disappears when he hears someone clapping behind him.

He turns to see a tall blond man standing by his side, cloaked and hooded, but even that cannot hide the deep blue of his eyes. One hand is visible beneath the cloak, tapping against his thigh in the applause that captured Levi's attention. Because, of course, this man only has one arm and therefore one hand and cannot clap like everyone else.

"Long time no see," Levi says, and he thinks he catches the hint of a smile underneath the hood.

"Likewise, Levi," Erwin says. "The gala isn't due to start in another few hours. Why don't I buy you a drink?"

.

.

.

He hasn't changed one bit.

He doesn't pull the hood back until they are seated on barstools at the front of a nearby tavern, the closest one in the city center. Even then he keeps it up around his ears, ready at a moment's notice to cover himself again and vanish into the crowd.

The last time Levi saw him was years and years ago, when Erwin was still quite well known, when Levi still called himself a boy. Since then the storyteller named after the great hero—the tactician who played a large part in winning the war against the Titans—has not been seen frequently, but Levi knows he is always around. Erwin is not the sort to linger, but neither is he one to cut himself off from the rest of the world.

It must have been twenty, at least fifteen years since Levi last saw him, but there are no traces of gray in the man's hair, no wrinkles on his pale, smooth skin. His eyes are as clear and sharp as ever and Levi could swear Erwin hasn't aged a day since they last met.

"You've grown," Erwin says, and Levi snorts. _Not much._

"You haven't," is his response, and Erwin nods amiably.

"You were looking for me, weren't you." It isn't a question.

Levi waits for the serving girl to hand them their drinks before answering. "What did you hear?"

"That you were to be married. That the woman passed into Maria's realm and you left, traveling across the kingdom on a mysterious errand—according to what I've heard. But I think I know what you want to find out. Am I right, Levi?"

"I'll be blunt then," Levi says, taking a sip of his drink. He makes a face as he swallows; the beer is much too bitter for his liking. "You know more of the old stories than anyone I've ever encountered. Where is the exact location of the entrance to the underworld?"

"I've told you many stories, Levi," Erwin says, shaking his head like he is a teacher and Levi the student who just gave a wrong answer. "Every hero who found their way found it themselves."

"I'm not a damn hero. And they had help."

"No one explicitly told them where to go. They figured it out themselves."

"So I'm supposed to _figure this out_ myself, then? That's what you're saying? That I've wasted my time coming here and with every day that passes the spirit's link to the living world gets weaker and weaker—"

He stops talking then, because something in his throat is beginning to catch and he won't sound like a fool in front of Erwin, not anymore. He takes a large gulp of his drink, feeling it burn as it goes down, and the uncomfortable sensation clears his mind a little.

"Well, how did they figure it out?"

"They searched for clues—"

Before Erwin can continue, the serving girl from earlier appears again, this time without the tray in her hands and a decidedly coy expression on her face. "Say, mister," she says, completely ignoring Levi, "are you the storyteller Erwin?"

"That I am," Erwin says, and the girl gasps in delight.

"You must be attending the princess's gala tonight then! Oh, I wish I could go but I have work to do." Levi tries not to roll his eyes; she wouldn't be attending even if she didn't have to work. "I won't get to hear your stories—do you think you could tell me one now?"

"It would be my pleasure," Erwin says, and Levi does roll his eyes as the blond man begins a tale, his voice quiet but deep, soft but powerful.

It is a story Levi has heard hundreds of times before—the defeat of the last Titan, and Erwin's voice fades into background noise as he stares at the mug in his hands, contemplating his next move. He can wait for Erwin to finish before speaking with him some more, but if he's supposed to figure things out himself then there may be no point in doing so. Perhaps if Erwin doesn't take too long—then again, the girl is eyeing Erwin as he tells his tale like he is a fine cut of meat on display in the butcher's window, and Levi's found that most taverns he's encountered do double as brothels, and while he has never seen Erwin display that sort of interest in any human being before, perhaps—

"—and with one last effort, he sliced the last Titan in the nape of the neck, sending the giant crumbling into dust. The ashes drifted down into the pit below, scattering across the barren wasteland like so many other Titans before had."

"But the pit is still out in the open?" The girl is hanging on to Erwin's every word.

"No, he closed it. The great hero returned to the world above, ascending a staircase of stone Maria built for him. With the three goddesses' help, he sealed the entrance, and over time, the lands below the earth shifted so that one entering the underworld will not have to face the Titans' pit immediately. But to forever remember the atrocities that had happened, in order to never forget the danger the world was still in, the hero devoted himself to protecting the entrance. He made it his goal. His life."

"That was so brave of him," the girl breathes, but Levi doesn't hear her.

The defeat of the last Titan—a story he has heard plenty of times before, whether from Erwin's mouth or others'. The tale differs in the middle depending on who is telling it but it always ends the same way: _… the hero devoted himself to protecting the entrance. He made it his goal. His life._

Levi always thought they were pretty words, just words to symbolize how faithful the hero was to his cause, but—

_They searched for clues._

He thinks of his travels, thinks of Shiganshina's dark corners and streets coated in grime, thinks of the fountain in the city square with its statue of the prophet, thinks of the little blond boy with the book in his hands.

_Have you heard the story of the key Eren's father gave him?_

He thinks of the districts of Trost, clean and orderly, thinks of shops and stalls and winding streets aplenty, thinks of one small alleyway and one strange heat and one mysterious figure.

_Just toss the ashes into the hole and lock them up._

He thinks of Erwin's story again—_he made it his goal. His life._ And the heroes in stories are never travelers like him; they settle down and start families when they can have happy endings. And where do people live their lives, if not in—

_What is thought to be the hero Eren's house—_

Levi stands in one abrupt motion, nearly knocking over his drink. The serving girl gives a little squeak of surprise as he grabs his bag and tosses his cloak over his shoulders, spinning for the doorway.

"Levi!"

Erwin stands too, reaches him in two long strides and puts a hand on his shoulder. Levi tries to shake him off but Erwin holds on more tightly, gripping with enough force to leave a bruise.

"Before you go, Levi, _listen to me_. Do you know where you got your name?"

The question is so out of the blue it startles him, stops him in his tracks. He frowns and opens his mouth but Erwin cuts him off.

"I named you, Levi. A few kind people on the streets took care of you until you were old enough to fend for yourself, but I told them what to call you. I named you. After the great hero Levi who fought the Titans."

Levi tries to shake Erwin's hand off, but the older man's hold is like steel. "I've never heard of him."

"No one has. He was considered humanity's strongest fighter. Stronger than Mike, than Erwin, than Mikasa, than Eren. He was hailed as humanity's savior. But then he was killed before the war ended and people eventually forgot his name."

"I've never heard this before. Why the hell are you telling me this now?"

"People forgot his name. The name Levi was never passed down in stories. But I remember it, Levi. _I remember it._"

Erwin's voice is insistent, almost harsh, and Levi wonders if he is missing something. It's like Erwin wants to tell him something important, but—

_I remember it._

The sudden truth hits him like a slap to the face. It can't be, it's impossible, yet it makes all too much sense. How the storyteller is missing one arm just like the hero from the old stories—the impossible youth—

"People remember the name Erwin. People think I was named after him, and I do not correct them. People look at my one arm and say _what a coincidence_; I do not correct them. But let me tell you something, Levi. The goddesses are fickle. They are as cruel as they are kind, and every word they say, every action they take must not be taken at face value. They may give you something that seems a gift at first, a blessing, but only too late you will realize it is anything but. They will try to trick you—do not trust them. Keep your wits about you. And someday, people may be telling stories about you."

Levi stares at him for one long moment. He nods, and Erwin releases him. He rushes for the door, slamming it shut behind him as he races off into the twilight.

.

.

.

He makes the journey back to Shiganshina in record time, walking all night, sprinting when he can across long stretches of smooth ground, cursing the fact that his legs cannot go any faster. In the daytime he finds a coach driver and pays him handsomely to travel as quickly as possible. He sleeps in the carriage, only waking when there are terrible bumps and jolts in the road.

He does not remember eating, but he must have because no hunger gnaws at his stomach. He does not remember drinking, but he must have at some point because no thirst parches his throat. He does not remember stopping for breaks, but they must have because his legs are not sore. He does not remember much of anything, only that he is getting closer and closer to his destination with every passing minute.

The coach driver drops him off just outside the city late at night and he enters quietly, once again just another shadow of many. There are homeless people sleeping on every street corner, in every abandoned alley, and he drops his cloak on one mother huddled by an occupied warehouse with her infant. The woman smiles at him gratefully as she reaches for the material and he looks away. He isn't a kind person; he won't be needing it, not where he's going.

Shiganshina is a maze of intersecting streets that loop and twist and lead back to each other, but he eventually finds his way to the far side of the city, where everything is just a tad bit cleaner. Grass grows in tufts along the roads and he sees the occasional flower peeking out from patches of weeds.

The house of the hero Eren is a small, shabby little thing, weathered down by the ages but kept in pristine condition by city officials; tourism is only a small part of Shiganshina's income and would not exist if not for this house, claimed to have been Eren's home hundreds of years ago. Documented proof of this claim is very little if not nonexistent, but it is what everyone believes and that is all that matters to the officials.

It is closed for the night, the front door cordoned off, but no guards are on patrol and all Levi has to do is slip his smallest knife into the lock and poke around and it clicks open easily.

He closes the front door behind him and turns to face the interior: he has never been here before, and whether a great hero once lived in it does not change the fact that everything is musty and as ordinary-looking as any other house he's seen.

A dusty shelf, moth-eaten cloths on the table—he ignores it all in favor of searching for a staircase, an opening in the floor. Something that leads downwards.

_But hidden well, I'm sure. Locked up, perhaps, to prevent others from getting in._

Thousands of people have been inside this house just for a chance to breathe the same air a hero once breathed, stand in the same spot a hero once stood—thousands of people who never once suspected a thing. It must be hidden very well.

He drops to his knees and starts feeling along the cracks in the floorboards, ignoring the twinge of disgust at the dust that quickly coats his fingers. Perhaps the entrance is right outside the house; perhaps it can only be accessed from—

At the very edge of the floor, in an empty corner of the house, he taps against something that sounds faintly hollow. He raps his knuckles against the floorboards more loudly and is rewarded with a dull thud.

He uses both hands to grasp the edge of the wooden board and pulls, to no avail. He tugs and yanks until his wrists hurt and his fingers slip and he thinks he has splinters in his palms, but it does not move.

He glances up to see the moon shining through the window, illuminating the objects in the house and throwing them in sharp relief against the shadows. It is silent, a cool early autumn night, and the world seems to be frozen. Waiting.

_No one's around,_ he tells himself. _No one will know it was you._

He slips his knife out of his boot, a bigger one, and starts hacking at the edge of the floorboard. The blade shaves flecks of wood off, then more, and then a corner of the floorboard comes up and he starts slicing harder.

At last he manages to peel one board out of the floor and he pauses in his work to rest his hands on his knees, breathing heavily from the work. He peers down into the crack in the floor, tentatively sticks his hand in—

He only meets air.

He works faster, cutting two more boards out of the floor before deciding the hole is big enough for him to fit through. At this point he can see a narrow stone staircase hidden beneath the floor, just wide enough for someone his size. Anyone bigger would have a hard time making their way down.

He returns his knife to his boot, picks up his bag carefully—he won't leave his lyre—and eases his way in.

It is a tight, uncomfortable fit, and the darkness instantly sets in like a blanket muffling all sights and sounds. He tries to replace the floorboards over his head before he goes down, leaving them in what he hopes is a natural position over the hole in the floor. It is in a corner of the house; with any luck, nobody will know. This area is blocked off; people shouldn't be coming here anyway.

Only a few stumbling steps down into the darkness and he meets a door. He tries the handle—locked. Of course.

Eren's father gave him a key. Levi has his knives.

He tries each of them, jiggling them in the lock one by one, but none open the door. He twists the handle harder, tugs and jerks on it, straining his wrists. He uses his knives, tries to unscrew the doorknob—no luck.

He did not come this far only to be stumped by a locked door. He glares at it, wondering if he could break down the—

_You idiot._ The house is centuries old, this entrance even older. It is a wooden door.

It takes three tries to kick it down.

The planks of what once was the door fall with a crash, sending clouds of dust everywhere. He covers his mouth with one arm and coughs, trying not to breathe in the gritty air. For a moment he expects the house to collapse around him, but after the clouds settle, the world is still.

He can barely see anything but his eyes are already adjusting to the dark; he can make out the confines of a small stone basement, a few moldy crates on one side. He feels his way along the walls, finds a small opening above his head—that must be an entrance to the outside world.

There is nothing else.

_No. Think._ There is only one direction he can go from here.

The instant he kneels by the crates he feels it; a strange, swirling heat. It is like what he felt standing in the mouth of that alleyway in Trost, the furnace of the crematory, but a dozen times stronger. It is a heavy heat, something that muffles the ears and dims the sight and makes one want to curl in a ball and hide from its power.

He knocks the crates aside and sees the opening.

Immediately he knows he was right. This must be it, this must be what he has been seeking, because there is nothing about the hole in the ground that suggests it is from this world. It is deep, it is black, he cannot see inside at all but at the same time it is lit up, radiating heat and energy—and looking down at that bottomless pit, he suddenly wants nothing more than to get as far away from it as possible.

He is still staring at it, holding his bag in his hands when his fingers accidentally brush against a string.

It twangs through the cloth it is wrapped in, just one faint note, but with that one note memories of Petra flood through his mind—she is grinning, tapping her fingers to the beat of the song he plays; she is laughing, winding her arm through his as she tells him a joke and he tries to ignore the erratic thumping of his heart; she is crying, tears of joy as she takes his face in her hands and pulls him closer to press a kiss to his lips; she is dead, face bloody and spine broken and eyes open, unseeing, never again to look upon him—

He has to go. No matter what might happen to him, what might await him, he has to go. He doesn't know if he will need Eren's key at the bottom, if he will have to face Titans, if Maria herself will punish him for daring to enter her realm before his death—no matter what, he has to go.

He takes a deep breath and begins the descent.

* * *

_A/N: This wasn't supposed to go over 5k words but oh well. Anyway, third part shouldn't take me this long. I hope. And thanks to Pauline/sun-summoning/ohwhatsherface for giving me the idea for prophet!Armin :D_

_I hope you understand all the things I'm trying to imply in this part~_


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